Chapter Six

A week later, Stiles grabbed his large caramel macchiato with whipped cream and extra drizzle to go. It wasn't until he was sitting in his philosophy class beside Danny, trying not to fall asleep while the professor droned on, that he noticed that where it usually said 'Stiles' on the cup, this time it said 'Ethan'. And under that was a phone number. Ethan's phone number.

Noticing Stiles staring, slightly dumbstruck, at his coffee, Danny leaned over. He grinned when he saw the number, elbowing Stiles teasingly. "Ethan, huh?"

"What?" Stiles looked over, blinking.

"Ethan from the coffee shop? He's cute," Danny smirked. "I guess he thinks you're cute too."

"I… uh, yeah." Stiles could feel his cheeks heat up a little.

"You should call him."

"I'm not going to call him!" Stiles hissed, glancing up to make sure the professor was too focused on his PowerPoint slides to notice them talking.

"Why not?"

"We're in class, Danny." Duh.

"So text him."

"I can't text him."

"Why not?"

"Because—" Because Stiles lived with two werewolves. Because Stiles had never just been given someone's number, so he didn't know what to do with one. Because he didn't know how normal people dated. Because he had a broken heart that he didn't think would ever not be broken. Because Derek.

"Oh, come on. It's been, like, months."

Because his friend Danny had apparently joined the ranks of the supernatural as a mind reader.

"Besides, if you don't text him he might spit in your coffee next time you go in."

"He's not going to spit in my coffee!" Ew. Ethan wouldn't do that. Would he?

"You never know," Danny shrugged, raising an eyebrow. "It'd be rude not to at least text him and let him know you got his number."

"It's not a good idea, okay?" Stiles shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I mean, what would I even say? 'Hi. Got your number. Sorry I can't date you because I'm a mess after being dumped? Oh, and by the way, werewolves'."

"Stiles," Danny rolled his eyes, "You don't have to date the guy."

"You're saying I should just sleep with him? I don't think that's going to help anything. Thanks though, really." Stiles tried to keep the sarcasm to a minimum but didn't quite manage. Like fucking someone else would magically make him feel all better.

"Nothing else has helped, has it? Maybe you just need to remember that Derek—"

Stiles flinched at his name but Danny ignored him.

"—isn't the only person you're ever going to be with. That you can be happy with other people—even if it is only for an hour or two."

"Danny Mahealani, life coach," Stiles muttered under his breath. Danny just shrugged and turned back to his notes.

Stiles waited until it looked like Danny was too focused on his—surprisingly well done—doodle of a classic wolfman to notice and then he surreptitiously wrote down Ethan's number on the corner of his notes. He wasn't going to do anything with it. But he didn't want to throw away the number with the cup.

Just in case.

He took another sip of coffee and tried to focus on what the professor was saying, but as had been the norm this last week he couldn't seem to keep his mind still enough to pay attention. There was too much going on and, without the aid of his painkillers, Stiles couldn't block it out.

His fight with Scott was still ugly and fresh. The two of them were barely able to grunt 'hello' in the morning with out one or both of them flaring up over an imagined slight. Stiles wasn't sure he could forgive Scott for flushing the pills. Sure, he knew taking them wasn't really a great strategy and that it could have become a problem. But it hadn't. Scott just hadn't trusted him enough to let Stiles deal with it on his own. He'd overreacted, completely blown up, and had assumed he knew what was best for Stiles.

Which was bullshit.

And now Stiles couldn't mask the hurt of Derek leaving. Especially now that it was not once but twice Derek had left him. And both times in that bedroom, with the dark grey walls that Stiles was beginning to hate. He'd been stupid to hold out the hope that Derek hadn't meant it the first time, because it was obvious after last week that he had. If Stiles had ever meant anything to Derek there was no way Derek could have done that to him. No way he could have hurt him again like that. You didn't hurt the people you loved. You just didn't.

Which meant Stiles felt just as raw and ragged and exposed as he had after their initial breakup, and now, thanks to Scott, he was being forced to feel it without pharmaceutical interference.

Thankfully Stiles didn't think Scott had said anything about the pills to anyone else. Although he might have told Isaac, who continued to watch Stiles with cautious eyes. It was as if, out of the three of them, it was the human and not the werewolves who might do something dangerous. If it didn't make Stiles's skin itch with annoyance he would have found it funny. Not that Scott would have had to tell Isaac, Stiles supposed. Scott had been yelling loud enough for another human in the house to have heard, let alone a werewolf.

Danny hadn't said anything though, and Stiles was pretty sure if Jackson knew—about Derek's visit or the pills—he wouldn't let Stiles live any of it down. So at least Scott had kept what had happened to himself, for the most part. Only one betrayal instead of two, then. How nice.

The sudden shuffle of bags and notebooks brought Stiles's attention back to the classroom and out of his own head. Gathering his things, he drank the rest of the coffee—now unpleasantly lukewarm—before tossing the cup in the bin on the way out of the classroom. Behind him Danny gave a long, dramatic sigh, and Stiles flipped him the bird as he made his way to his next class.

That night, as he had every night for the last week, Stiles sat slumped in his desk chair staring at the bed. The first thing he'd done that Saturday after he'd emerged from his room was to take the sheets he'd stripped from the bed and stuff them in the washer. He'd run them through twice, determined to get any last trace of Derek out of them.

But later that evening when he'd forced himself to put them back on the bed, made himself crawl under the sheets, he could have sworn Derek's scent was still caught in the fabric. So the next night he'd washed them again. And again and again and again and now it was the fifth night in a row that he'd stripped and washed and remade his bed and still been unable to sleep in it. He'd lie there, staring up at the white ceiling, or on his side at the grey wall, or on his other side at the room—desk, chair, bookcase, bathroom—and wait for the sound of his alarm.

Not for the first time Stiles wondered what would happen if he crawled into Scott's bed. If Scott would recognize that all Stiles needed was comfort and arms wrapped around him and if he'd let Stiles stay there until he fell asleep. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. To walk down the hall and knock on Scott's door and ask to spend the night in his bed. Because Scott had flushed his pills and Scott wasn't talking to him and Stiles was mad at Scott and he didn't want to admit that he couldn't sleep in his own fucking bed because all he could think about was Derek.

So he sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair, staring at the bed and wondering what it would take to reclaim it. What it would take to make the bed, the room, feel like they were his again.

Though he fought not to do it, fought to ignore the pull, resist the urge, Stiles's gaze was drawn irresistibly away from the bed and to the small drawer on the right hand side of the desk. He'd shoved the silver charm in it, hidden it under a mess of paper and sharpies and half-filled notebooks. He'd wanted to throw it out, had actually tossed it into the kitchen trash and carried it out to the back lane, only to have gone back two hours later frantic and near tears digging through the garbage until he'd found it again.

Stiles closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands, weariness aching in his bones. He was so tired. He kept hoping if he were exhausted enough, if his body needed it enough, he'd sleep. And he did. In fits and starts. On the bus, midway through class, watching a movie with Isaac. But never here. Never when he needed it the most.

Bringing his head up, he stared again at the bed with eyes that were bruised and hollow. He couldn't keep going on like this. He had to do something. Had to stop thinking about how things could be better or different or what he could do and just fucking do something. Running a hand through his hair he got up, crossed the room, and began to pull books off the bookshelf Derek had built.

Two hours later and Stiles stood panting in the middle of his room. The bookcase was gone, dragged out into the hallway and then (with help from Isaac who'd tentatively asked if Stiles needed a hand with it) carried down the stairs and out the back alley where it leaned drunkenly beside the garbage bins, its shelves stacked unceremoniously inside of it. Stiles had thanked Isaac and then gone back upstairs and shut the door. He'd then proceeded to drag his bed from under the window to against the wall where the bookshelf had stood, pushed his desk across the room and under the window, and moved his dresser to the wall beside the door where his desk had stood. Without a bookcase his books were lined up along the baseboards on either side of his desk, and when he sank down to the mattress he felt a little spark of pleasure at how he'd now be looking at his desk and the window and his books when he sat on his bed. Eventually he'd have to get some more bookshelves, and maybe when he was down in Beacon Hills for thanksgiving that weekend he'd go with his dad for some. He wouldn't get one tall one again, though. Maybe two short ones that could stand on either side of his desk so it'd still be flanked with books and he'd still be able to see them from his bed.

Stiles fell back against the bed and grinned up at the ceiling. He felt good. Exhausted, and sure to be sore tomorrow from dragging the furniture around his bedroom, but good. Like he'd done something. Accomplished something. Done a thing for himself that yeah, okay, had initially been about Derek. It had been about Derek's presence in his room, but once the bookcase was out it was like a weight had been lifted. The most obvious reminder of Derek was gone and so instead of thinking about what he would see and how it would make him think of Derek, Stiles found himself thinking about what he'd like to see from his bed, from his desk.

There was a knock on his door and Stiles pushed himself up. "I'm okay, Isaac. I don't need any more help."

"Not Isaac." Scott pushed open the door, standing there awkwardly. He held out an opened bottle of beer for Stiles. "Peace offering?"

Stiles hesitated a second for nodding. "I could get used to this, you know, you bringing me booze."

Scott rolled his eyes and crossed the room, passing Stiles the beer and bringing his own up to his lips as he sat cross-legged on the floor with his back against the relocated dresser. "It just sounded like you could use a beer after all your hard work." He looked around. "I like what you've done with the place."

"Thanks." Stiles raised his bottle in a mini salute.

"I'm sorry about—"

"Don't." Stiles cut Scott off, not able to meet his gaze. "It's fine. You weren't… well, I'm not saying I'm okay with what you did, but I get why you did it. So."

Scott relaxed a little, leaning back more comfortably. "Okay."

"Okay."

They drank for a minute or two in silence and Stiles tried not to think about how much he'd missed this. He hated fighting with Scott. They didn't do it frequently, but when they did… it always felt like a part of him was missing. Not like how it did with Derek, how it felt like Derek had taken a chunk of Stiles and walked away with it, leaving behind a ragged-edged void. But, when Scott wasn't there, it was like Stiles didn't have legs and kept forgetting about it. Like he'd get up and fall over and lie there for a second, utterly bewildered, because of course he had legs. He had always had legs, so how could he suddenly not?

He was glad to have his legs back.

"Alright," Stiles let out a long breath, "I guess you'd better tell me what's going on with the pack. With Marcus." It'd been too long with him not knowing.

"Yeah," Scott lifted his bottle to his lips to try and hide the grin that was spreading over his face, "I guess I'd better."

After Scott had left, taking their empty bottles with him, Stiles had walked over to his desk and pulled out a battered notebook from the bottom drawer. Flipping it open, he sat down at the desk, grabbed a pen, and began to jot down notes on a page with the name MARCUS scrawled across the top.

He'd started keeping a, well, a journal he guessed he could call it, of all the supernatural crap they'd encountered after they had used Gerard's bestiary to find out what the hell the lizard thing (aka Kanima) was. The bestiary was great and all—but it was in archaic Latin and even though Lydia now had her own copy on a USB and was translating it in her free time, it was still a bitch to try and pull information out of. Stiles hoped this would be easier and more useful since, let's face it, it wasn't like he'd be leaving said supernatural crap behind anytime soon. Not with his entire social circle all wrapped up in it.

This way, if they ever ran into a Kanima or a hyper-aggressive werewolf again, Stiles could flip back and see what they'd done about it the last time. And maybe that way they'd have an easier go of it the second time around.

Not that he hoped they would need to consult it ever—if he had his way there wouldn't be any more supernatural crap ever again—but it would be stupid not to be prepared. And Stiles wasn't stupid. He didn't really need to keep a written record of anything for himself, having near-perfect recall, but he wasn't an idiot. If something happened to him, if he got seriously hurt, or died, or… or… his brain started to go, then the pack would need something like this. Backup Stiles.

Which was why he was using a real, physical notebook and not a word document on his computer. This would be much easier to find in the event of his untimely demise.

They still didn't know that much about Marcus, nothing really helpful anyway. But enough background that Stiles knew the Alpha was a serious threat. Peter had managed to track him down on the website—apparently he went by the username Ra_Venous—and from there Peter had been able to piece together Marcus's background.

Marcus Laroque had been relatively unremarkable, as far as werewolves go, until sometime last year. Then, apparently without warning (as far as Peter could tell), he'd killed the Alpha of his pack. And not just any Alpha, but his own father. There'd been some kind of backlash from the other members of his pack but the dissenters had obviously been quelled because, only days after Marcus had taken over, the Oakridge pack had gone from fourteen members to ten.

Marcus hadn't stopped there though. Apparently unsatisfied with the size of his pack and his territory, Marcus had moved in on the next pack closest to his. He'd killed the Alpha—how, Peter hadn't been able to find out—and suddenly Marcus had commanded a pack of sixteen wolves.

Now, it seemed like Beacon Hills was next on his list.

Stiles made a final note to remind himself to ask either Scott or Isaac to print off a list of names of the members of Marcus's pack from the directory on the site, and then closed the notebook. He'd talk to them tomorrow. It was already getting kind of late and there was still one more thing he wanted to do before going to bed.

He bent down to grab his backpack and fished out his philosophy notebook, turning to the page where he'd written down Ethan's phone number. He wasn't sure if this was a good idea, wasn't sure why something so innocuous as a phone number left him feeling jittery, but he needed to make some kind of effort to move past Derek. And, like Danny had pointed out, it couldn't hurt.

Right?

Stiles created a new contact with Ethan's name and number and then stuffed his notebook back into his bag and sat, staring at the phone, suddenly feeling less sure of himself. Should he call? Text? He had no idea what the proper etiquette for something like this was. Drumming his fingers restlessly against the desk he checked the time—and realized it was a lot later than he'd thought it was. Past eleven already, and a school night at that.

Okay. Texting it was.

Sucking in a deep breath, Stiles tapped quickly at the keyboard and hit 'send' before he could second-guess himself.

Hi, Ethan. It's Stiles.

It was short. Was it too short? Would Ethan even text back? Should he have said something different? Should he have waited until tomorrow?

Unable to sit still any longer, Stiles got to his feet, pacing in front of his desk. He should have waited. After all this whole thing with his room and the book case, that had been about making it easier for him to sleep. Dumb to text someone so late at night and then be awake anxiously waiting for a reply.

Just as he was about to give up, turn his phone to silent and crawl into bed and ignore it till the next day, it rang. An actual ring. Not the single vibration of a text, but an actual ring of an actual phone. Stiles stared at the screen blankly for a second, at Ethan's name, and then hurried to swipe his thumb over to answer.

"Hello?"

"Hi," the voice on the other end of the line was warm, confident and amused, "You sound surprised."

"I—" Stiles ran a nervous hand through his hair, resuming his pacing. "I didn't think you'd call. No one actually uses phones as phones anymore." Uh-oh, did that sound ungrateful? "Not that—"

Ethan laughed and Stiles could picture his brown eyes sparkling like they did when they caught sight of Stiles in line for coffee. Stiles's mouth felt dry, and he wasn't sure what to make of that. Whether it was just nerves or something more.

"I don't call. Normally. But, well," there was an embarrassed pause. "I like you, Stiles. And you don't always come in on Friday mornings—"

(Because inevitably Stiles was running late on Fridays.)

"—So I wasn't sure if I'd see you tomorrow. And there's this party. Tomorrow night. I thought you might want to come?"

"Tomorrow night," Stiles repeated, his mind blank. Ethan was inviting him to a party. On a Friday night. Was that a date? Was he asking Stiles for a date?

"Yeah. My brother, Aiden, he's into that kind of thing. He's having some sort of thanksgiving party at our place—"

"A thanksgiving party?" Stiles interrupted, slightly incredulous.

"I know, it sounds stupid. But he'll take any excuse to get drunk and play loud music," Ethan explained. "He's calling it the 'Turkey Tourney' and there's a competition for best turkey costume and… that probably sounds horrible, I've never said it out loud before," embarrassment coloured Ethan's voice. "You know what, forget I asked."

"No, no," Stiles was grinning. "That actually sounds amazing. I'd like to go."

"Yeah?" Ethan sounded like he was grinning as well. "Awesome. You can bring a friend or two, if you want." He gave Stiles the address, Stiles scribbling it down on his philosophy notes, and told him to show up around ten.

"Okay, thanks. I'll see you tomorrow, then." Stiles was surprised by how casual he sounded. Like he got invited to parties by good-looking baristas all the time.

"I look forward to it. Good night, Stiles." And Ethan hung up.

"You and Allison," Stiles said without preamble as he shoved open the door to Scott's room. "You guys hooked up at a party, right?"

"What?" Scott twisted around in his desk chair as Stiles dropped gracelessly on top of his bed.

"Like, that's where the two of you became a thing, right?" Stiles was fidgeting with Scott's comforter, and not quite meeting Scott's eyes.

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, I sort of ran off on her and then Derek had to take her home and she wound up—"

"Okay, but," Stiles interrupted with a roll of his eyes, "Minus the stupid werewolf drama, that was, like, a date."

Scott shrugged, turning back to his computer. "I kinda thought it was, yeah." Man, he hadn't thought about that party in forever. It was hard to believe how different everything had been only a week or two before that night. How he'd just been a regular, stupid high school kid who didn't want anything except to get off the bench in a lacrosse game. He wondered what that version of him would think of who he was now. He was willing to bet he'd never have pictured himself as a freaking werewolf (and not just an average werewolf—if there were such a thing as an 'average werewolf'—but an Alpha werewolf) and a freshman in college working on a degree in criminal justice.

It was crazy to think that back then he'd had no idea about this whole other supernatural world. Even after the bite, when he knew things were starting to get weird, his biggest focus had been wondering how he'd get to kiss Allison.

There was a soft twinge of sadness at that thought. It was somewhere between a wry mingling of regret and that odd feeling you got when you remembered what it was like to be so stupidly hopeful about a thing. He'd never imagined that he and Allison would end like this. Not that he'd really been capable of imagining them together before that night. When he had it'd been all shy handholding and corsages at prom and maybe getting a hand up her shirt eventually. They'd surpassed that stage of things pretty quickly, and Scott had to bite back a grin as he remembered the hot and heavy make out sessions they'd had on her bed while her parents—

"Scott? Hello?"

Scott snapped back to the present at the sound of Stiles's annoyed voice. Obviously he'd been trying to get Scott's attention for a minute or so. "Sorry, dude. What?"

"Someone's asked me to a party," Stiles said in a rush. "And I don't know if it's like, a date."

Scott felt his face freeze and he had to force himself to pull his lips up in a grin. "Yeah? Dude, that's awesome." He wondered if Stiles could hear the strain in his voice, and hoped not.

"Is it?" Stiles sat up, chin in hands and looked imploringly at Scott. "How do I know if it's a date?"

"Well, do you want it to be a date?"

"I don't know…" Stiles looked away.

"When is it?"

"When is what?"

"The party, dumbass."

"Oh." A pause. "Tonight. Do you want to come?"

Scott laughed. "Yeah, right. I've got to get this assignment emailed by midnight and it's already six pm and I haven't even finished the reading. Besides, I thought you said it was a date?"

Stiles gave a groan of frustration and flopped back, staring up at the ceiling. "I said I don't know if it's a date. And he said I could bring a friend."

"Wait—he?"

"Yes. Ethan. From the café."

"Oh." Scott frowned. He didn't have a problem with Stiles dating guys, obviously, but he hadn't realized it was guys Stiles was into and not just Derek. Speaking (or, thinking) of, he really, really hoped Derek wouldn't find out about Ethan from the café. "Hold on—is it a date if you can bring a friend?"

"I don't know!" Stiles exclaimed. "That's the problem."

"Hmm." Scott frowned, thinking. "You should ask Danny to go with you." Danny was gay. And if Derek wasn't just an exception for Stiles then maybe Stiles could use a friend who understood.

Stiles made a thoughtful noise from the bed. "Do you think he's free tonight? I mean it's already, like, Friday evening. He probably has plans."

Not anymore, he doesn't. Scott surreptitiously pulled out his phone and sent a text, shamelessly utilizing his werewolf super-speed so that it was typed and sent before Stiles even realized he was on his phone. "You should give him a call. I'm sure he's free."

"Okay, yeah." Stiles pushed himself to his feet. "I will. Thanks, Scott." He patted his friend on the shoulder as he walked past, heading out of the room to go and track down his phone. "Good luck on your assignment."

"Have fun," Scott called after Stiles as he made his way down the hallway. Scott rubbed a hand over his face as he turned back to his computer. God, he hoped Stiles had fun. Hoped he had fun, was actually on a date with this Ethan, and managed to forget about Derek for a night, at least. Scott was tired of having to pretend he couldn't hear Stiles tossing and turning through the night. That he didn't see the dark circles under Stiles's eyes growing bigger every day.

Letting out a long, slow breath and trying not to think about how much of this was actually his fault, Scott picked up his highlighter and focused back on the textbook in front of him. Through the wall, he could hear Stiles ask Danny if he was busy tonight.